A Center Story: Silent Night, Lonely Night
by lilyrowan1
Summary: For MM Secret Santa 2017-It's Christmas 1918 at Downton-a missing scene from The Center of My Heart.


_Merry Christmas to all! This is my MM 2017 Secret Santa present to the dear and wonderful Haslemere, who always tells me she likes angst. So here is something rather angsty, a missing scene about something that Matthew makes reference to in Chapter 1, Mary in Chapter 2, of The Center of My Heart, although there are bits and pieces worked in that you'll recognize from other chapters._

 _For those who might be reading this and who haven't read Center, I've written it so that it can stand alone, with a bit of background. So: It's Christmas 1918. Matthew, still paralyzed, is living at Downton—Crawley House doesn't have a downstairs bedroom or bath, and even if it did, the spacious house is less confining, and it's easier to care for him with all the staff. He did send Lavinia away; she died of influenza in London in November. Mary is engaged to Richard; Matthew doesn't know her secret. I think that'll do it!_

 _Thank you so much to Klarinette and Hufflepuffhermione for all their work once again organizing the 2017 MM Secret Santa exchange-you two are the best!_

* * *

Silent Night, Lonely Night

After one last look at the magnificent tree, the family began making their way upstairs. Robert laid a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "May I accompany you to your room?"

Did he look as exhausted as he felt? He was touched at Robert's concern, at his tactful avoidance of the word "push." He would have been most grateful to accept the offer, but there was no way he was going let himself be pushed in front of Richard, not as long as he had an ounce of strength left in his arms.

Matthew smiled up at him, "Thank you, but I'll manage."

Robert nodded, his brows drawn in a slight frown. "I'll send Bates to you first tonight." Matthew's valet, Edgar Pruitt, had resigned the previous week, needing to move back home to York to help his recently widowed sister. It had been a massive relief to Matthew, as he had been about to tell Carson that the man just wasn't working out, his experience being with elderly invalids, not a young man stopped in the prime of life as he was. But that meant Bates was pulling double duty, seeing to Robert first, then coming to Matthew, until a new man was hired.

Matthew shook his head, "No, no, it takes so much longer to put me to bed." As Robert started to object, he added firmly, "I insist."

"Very well," Robert acquiesced reluctantly. He nodded again, giving his shoulder a pat. "Sleep well, my boy." He followed Cora, Edith, and Sybil upstairs.

"Happy Christmas, Matthew," Mary said softly. She started to say more, but Richard came up, taking her by the elbow, saying brusquely with a condescending smile, "Yes, Happy Christmas, good night." He guided her toward the stairs.

Matthew watched as they all ascended, watched Richard kiss Mary's cheek, watched her stiffen, watched them part, Richard to the bachelors' wing, Mary following the family. Why was she marrying that man when he made her so unhappy?

He started to wheel himself to his room, then stopped, gazing at the tree. Would he be alive next Christmas? He'd come very close to pneumonia with that cold he'd caught at the beginning of December, so close his mother had spent the night in his room, and Clarkson had checked on him twice a day, until he was sure he'd gotten past the danger. And if he didn't succumb to pneumonia one day, there was a laundry list of other ailments lying in wait; paralytics like him didn't live long lives.

He no longer prayed to die, rather just to get through each day as best he could, accepting the pain and humiliation, grateful for his many blessings. But it was a comfort to him, knowing that he wouldn't have to endure this life, this existence so apart from everyone, for too many more years to come.

And it was the "apartness," wasn't it, that was sometimes the most wearying and the hardest to bear _. I am the cat that walks by himself, and all the places are alike to me._ He had felt it keenly today for some reason, perhaps because it was his first Christmas in this new life, observing the family come and go, play the game, serve themselves, while he sat and watched and was served. Perhaps it was because it was his first Christmas since the meat grinder, his thoughts flashing back even as he carried on a conversation, or tried to. He had wanted to excuse himself when his mother and Violet had gone home, but . . . he just couldn't leave Mary.

And perhaps, no, surely, that was a large part of what had made the day so hard to get through—watching Mary and Richard. He desperately wanted her married and her future secure, but not like this, not to _him_. It was all wrong, and yet he knew Mary felt an inevitability about her engagement that made no sense, and it troubled him greatly.

He had told Mary, after Lavinia had died, that he didn't regret sending her away, that he wasn't afraid of being alone. And he wasn't. But he realized now with a shock of recognition that what he had experienced today was loneliness. And that was different.

Matthew sighed heavily, his eyes staring unfocussed at the tree, then he bowed his head, remembering where he had been last Christmas, and the men with him, so many now gone. And he remembered those who, like him, maimed and broken, had survived, so many without the love, and care, and security that he had. Love. He remembered how Mary had pulled him out of the depths of his despair, and that was always what kept him going, today and every day; he couldn't disappoint her faith in him. _Please, God, let her be happy._

.

Mary shut the door of her bedroom and waited, listening for her parents' and sisters' doors to close, then quietly opened her door and re-entered the now-silent hallway. She moved quickly to the gallery, gazing down at the Christmas tree.

Would she ever spend a Christmas night at Downton again? Perhaps, but more likely Richard would insist that they return to Haxby at the end of the festivities, since he clearly barely tolerated their Christmas traditions. Oh, he had been insufferable during "the game!" And his complaint about having to serve himself— _"It's not how we'll do it at Haxby."_ She grimaced as an awful thought occurred to her: _Does he think we're going to be spending Christmas day at Haxby?_ She couldn't imagine it.

She decided to go downstairs to see the tree in all its glory without the pollution of Richard standing beside her. Moving along the gallery, she turned a corner, then stopped, seeing Matthew below, his head bowed, on the other side of the tree, and her love for him, usually so carefully controlled, overwhelmed her. She slumped against the wall, her heart pounding in her throat.

She had had hardly a moment to speak with him today; Richard had made sure of that. But she and Matthew had grown so close during these months of his recovery, they managed to talk with a look, a shrug, a smile, a raised eyebrow, a roll of the eyes, Richard oblivious to their conspiracy. It wasn't the same, though, and God, she missed their easy conversation, their arguments, their laughter, which couldn't really resume until Richard left, the day after New Year's—she was counting down the days. She would be free of him until he returned for the Servants' Ball. She could only imagine what he would think of _that_ tradition.

Mary's eyes filled as she continued to watch Matthew. He had seemed so weary when they had bid each other good-night. She knew he put up a good front, that he was often in pain, exhausted from being up in his chair; he never complained, and she rarely let on that she saw it. But this was something more tonight, it wasn't just physical pain, and she had ached for him, ached for him now.

Matthew raised his head, and began to back his chair up. Mary moved out of the shadows, and Matthew stopped, his eyes widening, his mouth tugging up in that smile that always made her knees go weak.

.

 _Please, God, let her be happy._

Matthew lifted his head, and as he started to back up his chair, his eyes were drawn to the gallery, and there she was. He inhaled sharply, then smiled as she descended the stairs, allowing himself a moment to look at her and feel everything, before he made himself push those feelings down to that place he kept them, so that he could look at her and see his cousin and friend, his dear friend, his best friend. He wasn't very successful tonight, though. He was so happy to see her, his chest hurt. _Oh, my love._

Mary smiled as she came to him, cocking her head. "I'm not the only one who wanted a last look at the tree, I see."

He nodded, returning her smile. "It's really quite magical, isn't it? I would always wait until Mother and Father had gone to bed on Christmas night, then come back downstairs and sit for a bit, not wanting the day to end."

"Yes, we girls would wait until Nanny was snoring, then we'd sneak out to the gallery and peek through the balustrade, there," and she pointed to the same spot where she had stood and watched him, "looking at the tree. One year, Mama and Papa were standing right where we are now, and they saw us, but pretended they hadn't. We didn't know, until years later, that they had been about to go up, but had waited so we could keep looking." They both gazed up at the gallery, and for an instant, they were the parents whose children were giggling, and whispering, and shushing. They each felt it, mourned it, then pushed it down

Mary turned back to Matthew, her eyes concerned. "I'm afraid this was a long day for you." _By the way you're sitting, you should have gone to bed hours ago._

He gave her a reassuring smile and made himself sit up straighter. "I'm all right." _I'm all right, now that you're here._

She looked back at the tree. "I'm sorry that Richard was so tiresome today. I suppose that's why I wanted to come down, to have a moment of Christmas without him, one last time."

There was such resignation in her voice, such matter-of-fact acceptance of a life she didn't want, lived with a man she didn't love, he couldn't help himself. "You don't have to marry him, you know," he blurted out. She turned to him in surprise, but before she could say anything, he went on, "You don't have to marry anyone. You'll always have a home here, as long as I'm alive." It wasn't much of a promise, he knew, given his life expectancy, but he didn't care, if it would help her end it with Carlisle.

Mary started to speak, then pressed her lips together and shook her head, blinking back tears. _But I do have to marry him. And if I told you why, you would surely despise me. And I couldn't bear it._

"Please know," she said softly, holding his eyes, "how very, very glad, how very, very grateful I am to have you for my friend, to know that you are always on my side."

Matthew's chest heaved, and he said huskily, "Always, Mary."

She bent down and brushed his cheek with a kiss. "Happy Christmas, Matthew," she choked out, then turned and ran upstairs.

"Always, Mary," he whispered again, his eyes glistening. "Always." And he watched her go.

* * *

 _So yes, a bit angsty, but we know they soon get their happily ever after! (And if you don't know-go read The Center of My Heart!)_

 _Thank you for reading-reviews are better than Christmas presents!_

 _xoxo lily_


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